Sad Boy

Tell me your story and I’ll tell you mine,

My finger is on that trigger of forbidden thinking,

I’ll show you the words I bleed in these lines,

Trace my skin, in the knife sinking,

On these pages I tore my arteries,

These rubidescent droplets, They’re my artillery,

I’m a sick boy, they said,

I’m a sad boy, I bled,

Within these ink boundaries,

Are my foundries,

I make the blades with which I speak,

And though the poem may cease,

I never will.